


High School Atom Bomb (Going Off on the Weekends)

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety, Autism Spectrum, Cheerleaders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empathy, Family Fluff, Football, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Scratching, Self-Harm, Sexuality Crisis, Sibling Bonding, Stimming, Unresolved Emotional Tension, disproportionate panic over potato chips, hs football ro is my WEAKNESS, it's mild but will get a LOT more apparent later on, it's pretty mild and comes in the form of like. scratching and stuff, this is Self Indulgent™, vocal tics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: A few kids are laughing, making jokes at his expense. Any other time, he’d be fighting and spitting like a cornered animal, but he can’t right now. He can’t focus on anything other than the two pencils and two pens sitting on his desk, almost accusing in the way they stare back at him.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean’s morning always looks the same.

He wakes up at 6.30 am, sits in bed for five minutes to wake up, and then gets dressed. It’s always the same outfit: a simple ribbed cotton tank top (always black, grey, or white), the occasional t-shirt, jeans worn through in the knees and frayed at the hem, old, heavy work boots stained with mud that are starting to come apart, and a leather jacket older than he is that weighs a ton and smells like cigars. He eats the same thing (a bowl of fruit and a handful of pumpkin seeds) before he leaves.

He  _ likes _ routine. He  _ needs _ routine. Whenever his pattern is broken without ample warning, he freaks. Hell, he’s had breakdowns over not having pumpkin seeds. It’s stupid, and he knows that, but it’s what his life is.

School is the same way. He has his bag organized in a specific way that seems chaotic to everyone else. In the morning before announcements, he sits in the same spot. He sits in the same spot at lunch and always brings the same food: a pb&j, chips, and crackers. He always sits in the very middle of every class he has. He always has three pencils, a black pen, and a multicolor click pen. That’s just how his life is.

Until it isn’t.

The first time it happens isn’t technically the first time. He has panic attacks and meltdowns with an alarming frequency. But this was different than the others, so he categorizes it as the “first” in his head.

He doesn’t even get started on his work in first period before he’s pulling his hair and trying not to cry. He knows he’s making a scene as he rocks back and forth and mumbles to himself ( _ stupid, stupid, stupid _ like a mantra coming from his lips), but he can’t be bothered to care.

He lost one of his pencils.

He probably lost it in the hallway, probably fell out of his jacket pocket in the sea of students jostling him on his way to class. Sometimes that happens, but usually, he notices before it gets bad.

It’s bad right now.

A few kids are laughing, making jokes at his expense. Any other time, he’d be fighting and spitting like a cornered animal, but he can’t right now. He can’t focus on anything other than the two pencils and two pens sitting on his desk, almost accusing in the way they stare back at him.

The teacher comes over, a kind man in his fifties with a shaggy mullet and goatee who always wears a flannel over some sort of classic band tee. The few times Dean’s seen him wear a suit, it was the same plaid pattern. He only has one ear, and Dean’s asked about it so many times he knows the story by heart. “Hey, Dean, what’s wrong?” His voice is calm, soft, too quiet for most people to hear over the sound of high school kids fucking around. He doesn’t put a hand on Dean’s shoulder like most people would.

“Mr. Foley, I-.” He cuts himself off to choke down a scream that still leaves his throat in a low growl. “Mick, I lost one ‘f my pencils.” He’d never say it to anyone else because he knows how stupid it sounds, but for some reason, Mick’s always been good about Dean’s health. Dean’s known him since freshman year, and he immediately latched onto Mick once he heard the story behind his ear. He’s a big part of why Dean’s even reached his senior year to begin with. “I know it’s dumb to be this upset over a pencil but they’re  _ my _ pencils and I always have  _ three _ and now I only have  _ two _ and it isn’t right and-.” His anxious ramblings are cut off by a hand entering his line of sight. 

The hand is. Nice. Long, thick fingers and nice nails, a wide palm holding out a. Holding out a pencil. It’s one of the nice mechanical pencils too, the ones that people fought over in middle school. His eyes trail up to see a well-muscled arm and follow further to a gently smiling face. 

“You can have one of my pencils if you want. I know it isn’t one of yours, but it might help.” The boy has a nice voice, calm and deep, and it manages to cut through all the fuzz and panic in Dean’s head. 

Dean just blinks back.

His brain is still screaming, so it takes him a moment to process the offering. He takes the pencil gingerly, like he’s afraid the kid’s gonna rescind the offer. He doesn’t, though, and soon Dean has three pencils sitting neatly on his desk next to the two pens. All three pencils don’t match, only two of them do, but his brain doesn’t seem to care as much. 

He can’t get his mouth to work quite right, and only manages to open and close it, but Mick thanks the kid for him and leaves to go to the front of the class. The kid sticks out his hand and says, “Hi, I’m Roman. You’re Dean, right?”

Dean doesn’t take his hand, and only responds with a short, “Yeah.” He’s halfway to nonverbal already, so he ducks his head and focuses on the work projected on the board. His head is still fuzzy, but something about Roman’s smile calmed him down a little bit.

Roman smiles kindly but turns back to his work when as it becomes obvious Dean isn’t going to give anything else as a response. 

The day goes by uneventfully after that. There's the usual shit he deals with, kids being assholes because he’s different, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Hell, he’s handled it for most of his life. He sees Roman a few times, hanging around with the football team, with the kids that tend to make his life hell most often.

He tries not to feel disappointed at that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to add a little note about this. all of dean's experiences w sensory issues, anxiety, and ocd/autism/adhd/etc come from personal experience!! some of these are directly lifted from things ive encountered.

Surprisingly, Dean makes it over a week before he has another meltdown.

He’s pretty sure that’s some kind of record; it doesn’t take much to set him off, and he has one on average every 3 days. It’s tiring, yeah, but he deals. That’s just how life is.

The meltdown happens at the worst possible time: Lunch.

He tries to avoid eating in the cafeteria because it’s Loud and Crowded and he doesn’t have any friends he can eat with. There’s always Too Much happening in there, too many people and lights and sounds and smells. He’s learned the hard way that eating in there ends with a panic attack and someone throwing food at him.

Usually, he eats in Mick’s room. He’s technically not supposed to, since food isn’t allowed to leave the cafeteria, but it’s the only place he can eat in peace. Mick’s out today, though, has a workshop or something. The substitute shoos Dean away when he comes into the room and doesn’t listen when he tries to explain.

He can  _ feel _ the anxiety crawling across his skin.

He tries to find a quiet spot in the cafeteria, which is easier said than done. He tucks himself into the corner farthest from the Popular Table and debates whether or not it’s worth the ridicule to huddle under the table. He decides against it when he catches his math teacher giving him a dirty look. He shoves his headphones in and puts on some classic rock, his hands shaking so bad he almost picks the wrong playlist. They’re not supposed to listen to music but honestly, the rules can go fuck themselves.

He opens his lunchbox and almost starts crying.

He was running late that morning because his alarm didn’t go off, so his foster mom packed his lunch for him. He likes her; she’s nicer than the others. She knows his health stuff and does her best to accommodate him, and she usually does a pretty good job. Still, she’s perpetually worn down and frazzled because of the weird hours she works at the hospital, so she isn’t always perfect with it.

His chips are the wrong kind.

He looks through his lunchbox three different times as if it’ll make a difference. His sandwich is cut diagonally without crusts, which is correct, and the jelly is on top. The sleeve of crackers is tucked into the right-hand side, salted side down. Everything’s fine, except for the bag of chips staring back at him. He feels mocked.

Instead of his usual salt and vinegar chips, there are sour cream and onion chips.

He knows it’s dumb, knows it’s something insignificant and inconsequential, knows it’s illogical to get this upset over  _ fucking chips _ . Still, knowing that doesn’t mean he isn’t spiraling. He’s fighting back frustrated tears, vision blurring with it. His right-hand fingernails are digging into his left forearm and dragging down, scraping away layers of barely healed skin.

He’s still fighting back tears when a hand lands on his shoulder.

Dean lashes out, acting on instinct and adrenaline. His fist, clenched hard enough to cut his nails into his palm, connects with something solid. He hears a reaction, but it doesn’t register in his panic-riddled brain. It isn’t until someone sits across from him that he notices who it is.

Roman.

His face looks. Nice. His strong brow is furrowed, as is his pretty, plush mouth, likely due to… concern? Pity? Dean doesn’t know. He’s never been good with emotions. He isn’t sure which possibility makes his stomach roll worse.

Roman carefully reaches out, his hand practically crawling across the table. Despite everything in Dean screaming  _ NO STOP DANGER _ , he doesn’t move out of the way. Roman carefully grabs his right hand, stilling the aggressive scratching. Dean’s left hand drops below the table to dig nails into his exposed knee.

“What’s wrong?” Roman’s voice is soft in all the wrong ways. It sounds too much like compassion, feels too much like pity, tastes too much like Roman actually gives a shit. It spreads across Dean’s brain, like a fungus, blanketing the compulsions, quiets all the screaming in his head. The quiet might be worse than the voices.

“My chips are wrong.” Dean blurts it out before he can think. He cringes away immediately, trying to yank his hand out of Roman’s grip. He knows how stupid it sounds, knows it’s an idiotic thing for a fucking 18 year old to worry about, but his brian apparently doesn’t give a shit. He waits for the ridicule.

It never comes. Instead, Roman smooths a thumb across the knob of Dean’s wrist and smiles patiently. “What’s wrong with them?” He asks. Somehow, he makes it sound like it isn’t simple societal politeness, makes it sound like he actually gives a shit about why Dean’s freaking over  _ chips _ . Dean feels sick.

“I have salt and vinegar chips with lunch. These aren’t salt and vinegar. They’re wrong.” Sentences are getting harder; all Dean can manage is short, clipped lines that sound like he’s pissed, sound like he can’t be bothered. His tongue feels too big for his mouth. He gulps down half his water bottle in hopes that it’ll help. It doesn’t.

Roman’s face brightens. The crinkle of his eyes and the turn of his mouth make something coil in Dean’s chest, ugly and invasive. He doesn’t know the last time he smiled like that. Roman squeezes Dean’s hand before getting up and walking away.

Dean tries not to deflate. He’s not surprised, has come to expect everyone leaving him once they find out how much of a fuckup he is. It doesn’t make it any less painful, especially considered Roman’s the only person other than his mom and Mick who seems to care.

Roman coming back startles him, but not as much as what he offers.

In Roman’s outstretched hand is a bag of salt and vinegar chips. Dean’s throat closes as tears well in his eyes. He scrubs his face roughly with his hoodie sleeve, trying to hide behind hair he shaved off weeks ago.

“I already finished, but I had these left. You can have them if you want.” Roman offers, sliding the chips across the table. He doesn’t move to grab Dean again, and he can’t tell if he’s disappointed. 

Dean grabs the chips hesitantly. He’s still half-expecting Roman to take them back, to laugh at him, to ridicule him. He’s starting to realize that the other teen doesn’t seem like the type to do that. He carefully opens them with shaky fingers, taking care to not rip the seams.

The chips taste like salvation. He practically melts back in his seat, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He’s never been gladder to feel the bite of the vinegar in his jaw. He offers Roman a small smile and gets a bright one in return.

Roman sits with him for the rest of lunch and, somehow, that makes it a little more bearable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is just rambling self projection lmao

Dean’s never been a particularly quiet kid.

Well. That’s not entirely true. As a toddler, back when he was young and did things just to do them, he was loud; he babbled and laughed and repeated sentences and seemed to always make his presence known. He learned to stop it, though, to stomp down those impulses and desires. His birth parents didn’t seem to want a child, especially not one that was so present, and neither did most of his foster parents.

Makes him wonder why they even bothered with him.

It’s better, now. His current family seems to not mind; his mom is always tired, run ragged by long night shifts at the hospital, but she always has the energy to let him spew fun facts about things that couldn’t be more important to him. His dad works out of town, but he always makes sure to have conversations with Dean when he can, and he always smiles when Dean laughs. His foster sister, Alexa, always joins in with his vocal tics in an attempt to make him feel less alone. It always works.

It still isn’t… convenient. 

He gets urges, sometimes, compulsions to vocalize noises and grunts, to repeat words over and over and over until they don’t sound like words anymore, to hum and laugh and scream. He can’t do it all the time, though, because teachers see it as a “disruption” and other students see it as a target. He tries his best, but when he doesn’t indulge in these small things, it feels like someone has a hand on his vocal cords and is determined to yank the sounds out of him.

He finds ways, though. His music teacher doesn’t give a shit and barely teaches, choosing to spend time buried in his phone. He never notices when Dean leaves halfway through the class or when he doesn’t show up at all. 

Dean knows all the little niche and abandoned room in the school, every place he can hide from it all. His favorite is behind the sports equipment shed, where there’s a weeping willow that creates a whimsical cacoon. No one ever comes over there, so he’s usually able to sit there by himself and let all the bullshit out of his throat.

He makes it a few weeks before he needs to go there. For the most part, he’s been ok; most of his meltdowns have been contained to his bedroom, and he’s managed to avoid most of his triggers. It’s weird, in a way, to have a stretch of time where he feels almost… normal. He doesn’t know if he likes it.

He spends the short walk from the music room to the willow tree making quiet humming noises under his breath. He knows the route, knows which hallways have more teachers and which security cameras don’t work anymore. It’s nice, quiet, and he finds himself bouncing through his steps.

The willow tree looks more inviting than ever, he realizes. The drooping leaves are almost touching the ground, the plant obviously pleased with the recent rainfall. He rocks on his feet, taking a moment to catalog all the birds he sees. There are a few gnatcatchers and warblers perched on the branches, and he even sees a towhee nestled near his usual seat.

He doesn’t realize he’s been followed until someone plops down next to him.

Dean jumps almost violently. The low, tuneless hum that’s been building louder and louder in his throat dies out into an odd, startled grunt. His hands clench at his sides as his shoulders wrench up to his ears. He has to stop himself from swinging.

Roman at least has the decency to look embarrassed at startling Dean. He doesn’t leave though, instead scooching over to sit next to Dean. Their shoulders brush and Roman’s knee nudges into Dean’s thigh as he folds his legs. Dean finds that he doesn’t mind the contact like he usually does.

“What are you doing?” Dean’s voice sounds. Bad. Not only is he trying to fight down the momentary panic at being snuck up on, his throat is spasming about the noises he wants to make. His voice breaks and catches on his words.

Roman shrugs. “I notice you always leave during class and I was curious about where you were going.” He smiles at Dean, and that, paired with his genuine tone, makes the statement seem curious instead of invasive.

Dean squirms. He can’t breathe around the way his jaw is hurting, around the way his tongue twitches against his teeth. His swallowing catches, takes a moment too long to go down, a noise accompanying the movement. One of his hands comes up to massage the front of his neck.

Roman’s quiet for a moment before softly saying, “It’s ok if you need to…” He trails off, like he doesn’t have the right words, as he gestures to Dean’s throat.

Dean shakes his head a little too hard to seem casual. “‘M fine. Don’t ne-. Don’t need t’ do anything.” His jaw spasms as he tries to speak. These aren’t the words he wants to say, but he can't let himself do this while Roman is watching him carefully. He doesn’t want to scare off the one person outside his family who’s been nice to him.

Roman’s face softens. “Do you want me to leave?” His voice is soft, gentle like the leaves swaying in the breeze. There’s a sense of resignation under his words, like he doesn’t want to leave but will if Dean asks.

Dean shakes his head after a moment. He likes the company, doesn’t know if he wants to be alone right now. He wishes he had his sister or his mom, had someone with him who knew all his bullshit and didn’t care. 

“Don’t mind. It’s just. Sometime’s I have to m… make noises and say stuff and I d-don’t want to.” Dean pauses, tries to swallow around everything his throat is doing. "Don't wanna m-make you uncom. Uneasy." He shrugs, a jerky, short movement that screams of forced casualness.

Roman just. Looks at him for a moment, appraising, assessing. "Dean, you don't have to worry about making me feel awkward. Feel free to do whatever you need to do to feel comfortable. Just... act like I'm not here." He places a careful hand on Dean's knee.

Dean relaxes back against the tree trunk. It's weird; he doesn't know  _ why  _ his body reacts this way. He’s never been someone who waits for  _ permission _ , never thought of himself as someone concerned with acceptance. Still, he can  _ feel _ the tension eeking out of his chest once Roman gives him the go-ahead.

His brain picks a random word, as it is wont to do, something that passes by and latches onto. He finds himself rocking back and forth gently, repeating the word  _ gum _ under his breath. He likes single-syllable words, things that are easy to say rapid-fire like this. Small words are also fun because they stop sounding like words after a very short period of time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees that Roman is watching him. Usually, staring makes him uncomfortable he doesn’t like eye contact and can oftentimes  _ feel _ people’s eyes on him like a physical thing. Most of the time, just the thought of it makes his skin crawl. But… Roman’s gaze doesn’t feel judging, or malicious. It seems like he’s just… watching, like he’s curious, like he’s  _ interested _ , instead of assessing Dean for weakness.

After a moment, Roman starts to move. He starts rocking back and forth a little, almost like he’s copying Dean’s movements. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat.

The only person who’s shared this kind of thing with him has been Alexa. Most of the time, the best-case scenario is people ignoring his actions, and worse case is the ridicule. He  _ likes _ doing this stuff with others, like sharing the things that make his brain happy to see if they make other people happy too. He usually can’t indulge in that.

“Can I ask why you rock like this?” Roman asks. His voice is  _ still _ quiet, like he’s trying not to break the atmosphere. His head is cocked to the side a little. It’s reminiscent of a puppy, of a big dog that assessing everything around them with the  _ innocence _ of a puppy. Somehow, the description seems to fit Roman.

Dean thinks for a moment. “It makes my brain happy.” The pull in his throat is lessing, as is the way his jaw seems to be forcing the words. It’s still a little hard to talk, but it’s getting easier. “It makes everything calm down.” He taps the side of his head.

Roman nods. “I can see that. It’s really calming.” He smiles brightly. “Would you mind sharing some of the other things that make you happy?” It’s said in such a casual way, like this is a normal thing to say, like he hasn’t just turned Dean’s world sideways. Maybe this  _ is _ a normal thing to do; Dean wouldn’t know the difference.

“M-maybe later? Words are. Hard. Right now.” Dean smiles apologetically. He keeps wanting to hide behind his hair, still isn’t used to the way it’s shaved clsoe to his scalp. He doesn’t miss his hair, per se, more misses the protection it offered. He ducks his head instead.

Roman brightens like an 800 lumen light bulb. Dean thinks he likes Roman’s smile more than the sun. “I can give you my number. That way you can text me when you can talk better.” He offers, grabbing a sharpie from his pocket. 

Dean extends a shaky hand. He tries not to twitch as Roman carefully writes his number in big, bold letters on the inside of Dean’s forearm. His hands are shockingly soft. 

Dean has to fight the urge to melt into the touch.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean hadn’t realized how much his demeanor changed until his mom brings it up.

It’s early on a Sunday, so it’s just the two of them in the house. Dad’s at a conference a few hours away and Alexa’s busy with the cheerleading squad in preparation for the game that night. It’s nice, quiet, peaceful.

His mom smiles at him from behind the lip of her mug. She drinks coffee like it’s a religion, needs it with the weird hours she works. She’s still in her scrubs, probably hasn’t found the energy to change. He’s surprised she’s still awake. “So.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow. He looks down into his own mug, nudging his teabag through the remnants of milk and sugar at the bottom of his cup. “So?” He repeats questioningly.

“You’ve been in a good mood lately. Anything happen at school?” She asks, turning to the counter behind her. She pours another cup of coffee, her hands shaking slightly. He’s pretty sure this is her third cup in about 30 minutes.

He shrugs even though she still has her back to him. He taps his fingers against the table, stopping every once and a while to pick at the old paint smears with his fingernails. “I think I made a friend.” He mumbles.

His mom whirls on her heels to face him. Her mug sits, forgotten on the counter, as she comes towards him with a grin on her face. “Oh, I’m so proud of you!” She says, reaching out to ruffle his hair. The joy on her face melts a good ten years off, cuts through the exhaustion and stress. 

He can’t help but return it.

He feels a little silly. The admission and response seem like something more fitting for a toddler, for someone young and just starting school. It’s not normal for an 18-year-old to be this _giddy_ about having a friend, and his mom’s reaction is definitely an outlier as well.

“Tell me all about them.” His mom says, bringing her mug to the table as she sits down. There’s energy, _life_ , glittering in her tired eyes. She leans forwards and props her head in her hand. Dean laughs.

“Um, his name’s Roman. He’s in a few of my classes. I think he’s on the football team.” Her eyebrows shoot up at that, and he can’t blame her. Someone on the football team is the exact opposite of Dean. “He’s really nice about all my… stuff. He always tries to calm me down when I have my meltdowns.” He shrugs.

She lets him ramble about Roman for an unreasonably long time. By the time he’s run out of things to say, his wrists are hurting from the ferocity of his flapping and his calf is burning from his leg bouncing. His face hurts from smiling. He’s pretty sure the last time he was this happy, it was at the wrestling show his family took him to on his first Christmas with them.

Dean notices in the middle of a tangent about Roman’s tattoo that his mom is yawning. It’s not that she’s disinterested; she’s just come off a ridiculously long shift, having to deal with numerous patients in the ER. He doesn’t blame her for feeling tired.

“I’m gonna stop so you can get some rest, but… Can I ask for some advice?” He doesn’t make eye contact. Instead, he looks down at the table, at the stained wood and random gouges. He wants to get up, pace bounce, roll his shoulders, punch his jaw. He doesn’t though, because he likes to think he has more discipline than that. Instead, he traps his ankles around the front legs of the chair to keep them still and drums quietly against his thighs with jerky little movements. He purses his lips and bites the end of his tongue and rolls his jaw side to side nervously.

He doesn’t look up to see her smile but he can hear it in her voice. “I’m always here for you, Dean, no matter how tired I may be.” She reaches out a foot and nudges his shin with it gently. 

He manages to get his eyes high enough to look at her hands, still clutching her almost-empty mug. Her hands are tanned, worn, show her age in a natural way. They’re callused and strong from years of moving equipment and patients. He wants nothing more than to feel them rubbing his scalp.

“Roman asked about the vocal… _tics_ and the rocking and why I do them and I told him it makes me happy and calms my brain and he. He asked if I would tell him what else makes my brain happy? And I don’t really know how to respond? I have his number but I have. No clue how to talk to him.” He admits it in a stilted rush, like he can’t wait to get the words out at the same time his jaw refuses to work around the words.

His mom is quiet for a moment, tapping one short-bitten nail against the side of her mug. His hands twitch as he tries to resist reaching out and stopping her. He doesn’t want to be rude.

“I think that might be a question for Alexa.” She says after a minute. “I don’t really know a lot about talking to kids your age, and she’s little miss queen bee, so she might be more help.” Her voice is gentle and, despite how his brain would interpret it from anyone else, she doesn’t sound like she’s trying to _avoid_ him; she genuinely thinks Alexa would be more help.

It makes sense in a way that makes Dean feel a little stupid for not thinking of it. Alexa is a little younger than Dean, but she’s captain of the cheerleading squad and has so many friends it’s unfathomable to Dean. She’s petite and muscular and blonde and pretty and nice and he feels almost idiotic for not asking her.

“Thanks, Mom. Try to get some sleep ok?” He stands up from the table, shaking out his shoulders to relax the muscles. He feels stiff like he always does when he makes himself sit still. He pauses on his way to the sink to press a kiss to his mom’s forehead. He dumps his mug in the sink and turns to go to his room.

She catches his wrist as he walks past to leave the kitchen. Her smile is kind, reaches her eyes, wrinkles the tired skin at the corners. “I’m really happy for you, Dean.” She says softly, like it’s some private little thing.

He returns the smile and places a hand over hers. “I am, too.”

Weirdly enough, he believes it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got so far away from me it sits at a crisp 2671 WORDS (no joke it's E I G H T P A G E S)

Dean’s pretty sure he can count on one hand the number of football games he’s been to.

They're not really _ his scene _ , even though he isn't sure if he even  _ has  _ a scene. He doesn't like crowds or loud noises or bright lights or really  _ anything  _ about them. He's not really interested in sports either; ever since he was a kid, the only one he could find himself caring about was wrestling and, very occasionally, hockey. Still, he's been to a few; Alexa's first time cheerleading, her first time as cheer captain, and. And that's about it, come to think of it.

He goes, though, because his dad is in town for longer than a few hours, and his mom has a few days off. Alexa's cheering, because of course she is, and dad even promised they could go out for ice cream afterwards. He likes spending time with his family and  _ god  _ does he wish he could do it more often. He'll take what he can get, even if it means having to deal with everything else.

He's completely forgotten about Roman being on the football team until he sees him.

Roman's kind of hard to miss; he's  _ big _ , for one, tall and broad and muscled nicely with a little bit of softness around his middle (Dean doesn't know why he's noticed this; more accurately, he isn't going to  _ let  _ himself figure out why). He's number 96, wearing the white and gold jersey of the school. Dean doesn't know a whole lot about football, but his dad does, so of course he has an answer when Dean shyly asks what position the older teen is. Defensive tackle.

Normally, during games, Dean focuses on Alexa, or on the number of fidget toys he inevitably brings with him. Sometimes, he's on his phone, or he's tucked into his mom's jacket, not unlike a small child. This time, though, he finds himself staring past the crowd and the bright lights to watch his. 

His  _ friend _ . 

Roman moves like he was  _ born  _ for this, fluid and easy. He's not a clumsy guy, but his movements off the field are reigned in and careful. Here, though, he makes football look balletic, makes it look gorgeous and sinuous and  _ fun _ . Dean likes watching him, likes the shifting of his tattoo, likes the visual stimulus it supplies. 

The game passes  _ far  _ faster than it usually does. Normally, he feels like games last for an eternity, like he's living in molasses, like someone's brought time to a near standstill. This time, it goes by in a blink; one minute, he's listening to the marching band play the national anthem, and the next everyone around him is standing to leave. It's enough of a change to bring him on edge, his left hand clenching a fistful of his mom's jacket, his right hand shoved into his pocket to rub anxious circles around his poker chip.

They slowly make their way to the edge of the field, where the cheerleaders are still jumbled. Dean's mom leads the way. followed by him and then by his dad. He likes it this way; this is good and normal and what he's used to. He likes the security he gets from shuffling along between his parents, likes how they essentially serve as shields for him.

Alexa's too busy talking to her girlfriend, a short Scottish girl named Nikki, to notice her family, so they loiter around until she does. Dean busies himself with tracing the fence links, reveling in the way the winter-chilled metal makes his fingertip go a little numb.

He's so caught up in what he's doing that he doesn't notice someone sneaking up on him.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, so he reacts without thinking. His elbow flies back and catches the person on the nose. It's not the hardest Dean's ever hit anyone, but it certainly isn't pulled in any meaningful way. It's only when a muffled, " _ Fuck _ " reaches Dean's ears that he realizes what he's just done.

Dean whirls around, hands already flying to cover his mouth. Roman is standing behind him with his head tilted back, a hand holding his nose. It doesn't look like there's any blood, which is a good thing. Roman still looks pained, though, his helmet forgotten on the turf next to him.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." The words come out in a rush. Dean doesn't move to help Roman, instead staying planted to the spot. He doesn't  _ want  _ to move, lest he make this worse. 

People around them are starting to notice, and Dean wants the ground to swallow him whole. He feels bad, for hurting Roman, for reacting like he did, and the feeling only intensifies when Alexa and his parents take notice.

"Roman? Are you ok?" Alexa asks, placing a careful hand on Roman's arm. She's small compared to most people, but standing next to Roman, she looks downright Lilliputian. Dean doubts both of her hands could circle Roman's bicep. He also wonders why he notices  _ that  _ of all things at a time like this.

Roman nods and tilts his head back down. He levels Dean with an assessing look, letting his hand fall to his side. His nose doesn't look broken; it's a little red, but it's not too swollen or in the wrong place, so Dean counts it as a win. 

"I'm good. Dean damn near rung my bell there, but I've taken worse." Roman's tone is light, as is his smile, as are his eyes, but Dean couldn't feel worse. He hears, distantly, that Roman is chuckling at something Alexa says, but he can't really register it over the roaring in his ears.

He tries to blink back the frustrated tears building in his eyes as he stares a hole in the turf. Why can't he just be  _ normal _ ? The first god damn friend he's ever had, and Dean's gone and fucked it all up by almost breaking his goddamn nose. He's broken, a waste, can't do anything right, and now Roman is going to hate him. He fights the urge to pull his hair or hit himself because he can  _ control  _ himself, goddammit, he's a fucking adult with control over his own damn actions.

Through the film of tears Dean won't let himself shed, he sees his mom's beat-up tennis shoes entering his line of sight. He sniffles and scrubs a hand down his face aggressively, relishes in the drag of his calluses against his skin.

Wordlessly, she leads him away from the crowd, from the bright lights, from the noise, from the Everything that's pounding against his skull. She leads him to one of the restrooms and digs through her purse for a moment.

"Honey? Can you tell me what happened?" She asks, her voice quiet and calm. She hands him a small pack of tissues and purposefully positions herself so that he has space and can see the exits.

He bursts into tears.

He doesn't  _ mean  _ to, and he certainly hates it, but it happens and he's helpless to stop it. He detests crying; whether it be the years of beratement from his "families" or the pounding it causes in his head or the  _ weakness  _ of it all, he doesn't know, but what he does know is that it’s the fucking worst. He stands there for an embarrassingly long time, sobbing into his hands as his mom watches. He knows she wants nothing more than to reach out and comfort him, but he appreciates her respect for his boundaries. 

He's certain that getting touched right now would make it infinitely worse.

After a long few minutes, he finally calms down a little. He's still crying, but it's silent tears that slip down his cheeks instead of the racking sobs that stole all the breath from his lungs, so at least it's more manageable. He takes a moment to catch his breath and clean up his face as best he can. A few more deep breaths and he's able to speak.

"Someone put a hand on me from behind and I wasn't paying attention and I just reacted and it was Roman and I just. I almost broke his nose and I feel like shit and I just fucked up my only friendship and-" His increasingly frantic rambling is cut off by his mom putting up a placating hand. He blinks at her dumbly for a moment, unable to comprehend anything other than his own panicked thoughts.

"Dean, breathe. Spiraling like this isn't going to help anyone, least of all you." She takes a few careful, measured breaths and waits until he mimics her. She waits until his breathing has calmed before continuing. "You didn't ruin this friendship. You didn't do anything wrong. You were in an overwhelming environment and something startled you and you reacted. That's  _ fine _ . You're  _ ok _ . I'm sure Roman will understand. You said he was always really good about your stuff, right?"

Dean nods after a moment. He feels like garbage- his head is pounding and his nose is running and his face feels hot- but at least it's physical and not the emotional clusterfuck of a few minutes before. "I guess." He mumbles, bracing himself against the sink. He always feels drained after meltdowns, always feels like a drained battery, and he almost can't fight the way his limbs feel like lead.

They stay there for a while, Dean’s mom slowly helping him calm down. Splashing water on his face helps, as does rubbing the close shaved hair on the sides of his head. He rocks and bounces and flaps. It isn’t his happy flapping, the floppy wristed, loose shaking that happens when he’s excited. No, this is rigid, wrists fixed, fingers pulled stiff enough to hurt, elbows pressed deep into his sides. 

Alexa comes into the bathroom after an indeterminate amount of time. 

She looks a little flustered, and Dean can’t tell if it’s because she’s been cheering or if it’s because of having to deal with him. Her hair is still pulled back into her pigtails, but her ribbons are crooked and her hair is starting to come loose. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s out of breath, like she ran there.

“Bub, you ok?” She asks, slowly coming into the room. She edges her way towards Dean, like she’s trying not to scare a wild animal. He supposes that’s accurate, in a way, but right now he feels more like a tired old lion in a too-small cage.

“Better.” He says, trying to stop the anxiously clenching of his fingers. He can’t stand keeping them still, though, so he moves them to tapping against the knob in his collarbone. It broke when he was young and never healed right, and he’s learned that drumming his fingertips over the bump in the bone is shockingly calming.

“Is it ok if Roman comes in? He wants to check on you, but he told me to ask first.” Her voice is calm, careful. Her words are slow, planned out, downright methodical.

Dean blinks hard a few times. It helps him think, somehow, feeling his eyelids scrunching and his eyebrows drawing down. He processes the words, their meanings, the implications.  _ Roman _ wants to check that  _ he’s _ ok even though  _ Dean _ is the one that hit Roman. Roman wants to see if he’s ok but wanted someone else to ask first. Roman was respecting his boundaries.

Roman  _ cares _ .

Dean almost starts crying again.

He tucks his head down and nods, flashing a thumbs-up with a shaky hand. He drums his toes against the tiled floor, settling most of his weight against his heels. His skin feels like it’s crawling.

Alexa leaves in a blur of white and gold. She’s gone for a few moments, in which Dean’s mom checks how he’s doing again. He lets her hold his hands in hers, taking square breaths to try and keep the composure he isn’t entirely sure he possesses.

After a tense few moments, Roman comes into the bathroom.

He looks. He looks fine. He looks  _ better  _ than fine. There’s a healthy flush to his skin, the kind you get after exercising. He’s swapped his uniform for a t-shirt that’s just a little too tight across the expanse of his torso and a pair of faded jeans. He looks like he’s showered, his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail.

He smiles at Dean, something soft and disarming, something that lights up his face. His eyes light up, glimmering in the fluorescent bathroom lights. His nose is a little red, but it’s nothing too bad, and most importantly, he doesn’t look mad.

“Hey, Dean. You ok?” A lot of things about that catch Dean off guard. For one, Roman’s voice is  _ soft _ , careful gentle in a way that feels like a heavy blanket on a Bad Day. He seems  _ happy _ to see Dean, concerned in a friendly way. 

Dean blinks hard. “I should be asking you that.” He knows it’s probably something he shouldn’t say, is probably rude, but his brain can’t comprehend the situation.  _ He _ hit Roman, so why is  _ Roman _ checking on  _ him _ ? 

Roman’s smile softens. “I scared you. I wanted to make sure you were ok. Don’t worry about me.” He takes a careful step closer, still leaving about a foot and a half between them. He looks like he wants to reach out but knows better.

Dean's heart swells in his chest and gets caught in his throat. He blinks back incredulous tears and taps his fingers rhythmlessly against his thigh. “I’m sorry.” He croaks, staring down at the stained tile floor. His hands clench against his thighs, fighting the urge to dig his nails into his skin or pull his hair out.

Roman makes a small, unconscious noise in the back of his throat. It’s a distressed sound that seems miles too loud as he takes a few careful steps closer.

A hand hesitates for a moment before carefully resting underneath Dean’s jaw. His head gets tilted up and he almost starts crying at the open, raw look on Roman’s face. “Dean, you don’t need to apologize. I snuck up on you and you reacted. If anything,  _ I’m _ sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is so soft it  _ hurts _ , barely above a murmur, something that calms and disquiets in equal measure. His fingers are callused, the kind that you get from lifting weights, and they catch against Dean’s skin in a surprisingly pleasant way.

Dean drops his head as much as possible and swallows hard. Everything feels like Too Much but in a different way. It isn’t physically overwhelming, isn’t a  _ sensory _ thing; it’s an emotional thing, something that stems from the emotions playing out across Roman’s face, lacing his words, things that Dean has never been able to categorize.

This is everything he’s bad at. He can’t do people, can’t do emotions, can’t do apologies. For  _ years _ he was taught that his every reaction was his fault, that he was to blame, that he needed to  _ control _ himself. To have someone like Roman, perfect and unobtainable, apologizing for something like this…. It makes something warm swell in his chest, something that’s too big to fit in his ribcage.

“Thank you.” He whispers, managing to look Roman in the eye. He’s never been one for eye contact, has never felt  _ comfortable _ looking someone in the eye, but it’s different with Roman. Instead of feeling exposing and critical and  _ BAD _ , it feels. It feels like he’s making a genuine connection with someone.

Roman smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. His thumb brushes against Dean’s jawbone before his hand falls to his side. “No need to thank me, Dean.” He says, not unkindly as his hands rest in his pockets. He leaves, but not before giving Dean another smile, something small and private and just for them.

Dean can’t even bring himself to fight against Alexa’s gentle cajoling as they walk to the car.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cherry-mox on Tumblr! Come bug me!  
> Title from Too Dumb to Die by Green Day


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